“What’s the next step?” Melba wanted to know. She wasn’t much for light banter, though she could certainly hold her own in that—or any other—arena.

“In your campaign for sheriff?”

Melba made an eloquent sound of dismissal. “That’s two years away, Eli, and you’re still a pretty popular guy in this county. I meant what’s the next step in the investigation?”

Eli sighed heavily. “I’m headed out to the Painted Pony Creek Motel to ask Russ Schafer a few questions. Make sure he doesn’t forget to go in for a swab.”

“Yesterday,” Melba reflected aloud, “that poor girl was still alive.”

“Maybe,” Eli allowed. “She could have been out there for a day or two, though. Weather this cold keeps a body pretty fresh.”

“Where was her coat?” Melba asked, still musing aloud rather than seeking an answer.

“I’ve been wondering that, too. If she drove out to that lot, she could have left her coat or jacket in the car. She might have been in a hurry to confront whomever she was meeting.” He paused. “Of course, that begs the question, what happened to the car?”

“Exactly,” Melba said. Then, after drawing in an audible breath, she asked, “Why don’t you call it a day after you talk to Russ? Go over to your sister’s house and enjoy a nice dinner with your family.”

“I’m planning on doing that,” Eli answered.

“Brynne’s there,” Melba informed him.

Had everyone in the whole damn town seen him kiss Bailey the night before and drawn their own conclusions?

Evidently.

“So is Dan,” Eli retorted. “Join us? At Sara’s place, there’s always room for one more.”

While waiting for an answer, he shifted the SUV into Reverse, checked his mirrors and backed out of his parking space in the funeral home’s parking lot.

“Sara invited me,” Melba admitted.

“Bring the kids,” Eli suggested generously.

“They’re at my mom’s, over in Silver Hills. She’ll bring them to school in the morning.”

Eli was rolling toward the edge of town, and the highway that would take him to Schafer’s run-down motel. The place always made him think of Norman Bates, of Psycho fame, sitting in a rocking chair, dressed up in his mother’s clothes.

“All the more reason to get out of the house,” Eli said.

“I’m not in the house, Sheriff. I’m in your office, trying to find some trace of Bethanne Schafer.”

“Go home, Deputy. Swap the uniform out for civvies and head on over to Sara’s place.”

Melba said nothing, but the space between them was charged with—what? Annoyance? Challenge?

“What’s the matter, Summers?” Eli chided. “Are you chicken?”

Melba huffed. “Schoolyard tactics, Sheriff,” she accused. “I expected more from you.”

“You are chicken,” Eli pressed, with a chuckle.

“You know damn well I’m not,” Melba replied coldly.